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FAUCIT 
The  Miller's  Maid 


- 


THE     MINOR     DRAMA. 

&$e  actfnfl  SEoftfon. 
No.  XCII. 


THE 


MILLER'S  MAID; 

A  MELO-DRAMA  IN  TWO  ACTS. 

FOUNDED    ON    BLOOMFIELd'S   POEM   OF   THAT    NAME,    AND    THE    SONGS 
PRINCIPALLY    SELECTED    FKOM    HIS    WORKS. 

BY   JOHN    FAUCIT    SAVILLE, 

Author  of"  Justice,"  a  Musical  Drama,  in  three  Acts — "Cinderella," 

"Charles  the  Bold  " — "Fair  Rosamond  " — "(Edipus  " — 

"Plutarch  Abridged,"  §c.,  SfC. 


A  description  of  the  Costume— Cast  of  the  Characters— Entrances  and  Exits — 

Relative  Positions  of  the  Performers  on  the  Stage,  and  the  whole  of  the 

Stage  Business. 


AS    PERFORMED    AT    ALL    THE 

PRINCIPAL   ENGLISH   AND   AMERICAN    THEATRES. 


NEW     YORK: 
SAMUEL      FRENCH, 
122  Nassau  Street,  (Up  Stairs.) 


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Costume. — (The  Miller's  Maid.; 


MILLER — Drab  coat,  red  waistcoat,  and  drab  breeches,  striped 
stockings  black  shoes  and  buckles. 

GILES — White  countryman's  jacket,  leather  breeches,  colored  stock- 
ings and  shoes. 

GEORGE — White  trowsers,  check  shirt,  and  blue  jacket. 

MATTY  MARVELLOUS— Short  smock-frock,  with  charity  boy's 
breeches,  stockings,  &c. — half  miller  half  charity  boy. 

GRANGER — Old  soldier's  coat,  white  kerseymere  breeches  and  waist- 
coat, long  black  gaiters,  shoes  and  buckles. 

GAMEKEEPER — Corderoy  breeches,  long  leather  gaiters,  and  fus- 
tian shooting  jacket. 
DAME — Brown  stuff  gown,  flowered  petticoat  and  apron. 
PHEBE — Chintz  gown  and  white  petticoat 


STAGE     DIRECTIONS. 


L.  means  First  Entrance  Left.  R.  First  Entrance  Right.  S.  E.  L. 
Second  Entrance,  Left.  S.  E.  R.  Second  Entrance,  Eight.  U.  E.  L. 
Upper  Entrance,  Left.  U.  E.  R.  Upper  Entrance,  Right.  C.  Centre. 
L.  C.  Left  Centre.  R.  C.  Right  of  Centre.  T.  E.  L.  Third  Entrance 
Left.  T.  E.  R.  Third  Entrance,  Right.  C.  D.  Centre  Door.  D.  R. 
Door  Right.  D.  L.  Door  Left.  U.  D.  L.  Upper  Door,  Left.  U.  D.  R. 
Upper  Door,  Right. 

%*  The  reader  is  supposed  to  be  on  the  Stage,  facing  the  Audience* 


THE  MILLER'S  MAID. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — [Half  dark.]  Opens  with  the  gradual  dispersing  of  the 
mists  of  morning  twilight,  the  rising  beams  of  the  sun  breaking  oc- 
casionally through — on  one  side  of  the  stage  the  body  of  a  large 
Mill,  mill  stream  and  flood  gates,  l.  h.,  the  water  in  places  gushing 
through  them,  the  stream  meanders  off  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  over 
which  in  the  distance  is  thrown  a  7'ustic  stone  bridge — on  the  oppo- 
site side  to  the  Mill,  and  nearly  on  a  line  with  it,  the  Miller's  house, 
R.  h. — the  per  spective  filled  up  with  cornfields,  rural  and  picturesque 
scenery,  <£e. — Music. — One  of  the  shutters,  l.  n.  of  the  Mill  is  opened 
and  Giles  looks  out. 

Giles.  So  the  rain  be  gone  off  at  last,  and  it  be  almost  daylight. 
Phebe  be'nt  stirring  yet.  No  wonder  I  be  always  up  first  in  the  vil- 
lage, for  I  do  scarcely  sleep  for  thinking  of  her.  Ah !  life's  a  burthen 
without  her,  and  I'll  make  up  my  mind  to  tell  her  so  at  once. 

[As  he  retires  from  the  shutter,  the  curtains  of  a  window  in  the  Mil- 
ler's house,  r.  h.  are  withdrawn,  the  casement  opened,  and  Phebe 
looks  from  it,  surveys  the  Mill  tvith  apparent  disappointment,  then 
rectifies  her  cheek  upon  her  hand — the  door  of  the  Mill  is  now  opened 
and  Giles  comes  out  from  it,  as  he  approaches  the  front  of  the  stage, 
another  shutter  of  the  AIM  opposite  Phebe' s  window  is  opened,  and 
George  looks  from  it — Phebe  and  George  recognise,  and  express  by 
gestures  their  love  for  each  other. 

Giles.  Yes,  my  mind  be  made  to  it,  and  Phebe  shall  declare  for 

George  or  me ;  and  if  for  him  why But  I  can't  think  of  him  with 

temper.  Once  she  were  kind  to  me,  and  might  have  had  me,  when 
just  in  the  nick,  master  brings  home  tins  sailor,  George,  and  ever  sin 

that  day [Turning  towards  her  window,  sees  it  open.]    Ha!  she 

be  up,  and  now  we  are  alone,  I'll  ease  my  mind  at  once.  [As  he  ap- 
proaches to  address  her,  observes  George  conversing  with  her,  watches 
them  a  moment,  struggling  with  his  jealousy,  which  at  length  appears 


THE    MILLER  S   MAID.  5 

to  overcome  Tim.]  Cross'd  again  !  zounds,  the  sight  of  him  do  always 

set  my  blood  a  heating.     I  never  see  him  but  long  to He  shan't 

have  her.  I'll  die  first,  and  so  I  shall  I'm  sure,  for  it  be  now  too  plain 
that  Phebe  loves  him.  [Throws  himself  on  a  bench  at  the  cottage  door , 
K.  H.  George  comes  from  the  Mill,  and  approaches  Phebe 's  window. 
Giles,  whose  jealousy  has  been  working  him  to  an  instant  decision, 
starts  up  as  Phebe  retires,  and  George  comes  forward.]  Yes,  jes,  if 
I'm  to  be  without  her,  so  shall  he — his  life  or  mine. 

Geo.  A  good  morning,  Giles. 

Giles.  To  thee  it  may  be,  not  to  me.  Lookee,  Geo  ge  !  long  before 
you  came  here  I  saw  Phebe,  and  I  loved  her.  I  believe  she  didn't 
dislike  me,  and  but  for  you  she  might  have  been  mine.  I  feel  I  can't 
live  without  her,  so  if  you  refuse  to  quit  your  pretentions  to  her,  why 
your  life  or  mine. 

[Music. — Seizes  him  by  the  collar — they  struggle — the  Miller  enter- 
ing, r.  u.,  from  the  house,  comes  between  them,  and  separates  them. 

Mil.  Hold  thee,  Giles  !  hold  !  I  say.  Thee  bes't  an  honest  lad  and 
a  good  servant,  but  passion  runs  away  with  thee  too  oft.  George  thou 
art  a  good  lad  too,  and  must  forgive  him. 

Geo.  With  all  my  heart,  sir.  I  have  long  observed  with  sorrow  his 
growing  animosity  to  me ;  but  as  I  suffer  myself  from  the  same  pow- 
erful cause,  know  how  to  make  excuses  for  another ;  for  who  can  see 
Phebe  and  not  love  her  ? 

Giles.  [Passionately.]  No  man  shall  take  her  from  me  while  I  can 
defend  my  right. 

Mil.  [Checking  him.]  What  right1! 

Giles.  That  of  loving  her  first. 

Geo.  The  greater  good  fortune  yours,  who  had  an  opportunity  of 
obtaining,  before  I  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  her.  Had  you  made 
her  your  wife,  you  had  closed  the  door  to  future  advances,  but  while 
she  remains  free,  a  virtuous  woman  is  the  honorable  prize  that  every 
honest  heart  has  an  equal  right  to  contend  for. 

Giles.  And  thou  shalt  find  I  will  contend  it  with  thee — I'll  not  re- 
sign her  tamely. 

Mil.  Giles,  at  the  best,  thee  we'rt  always  passionate,  now  thee  art 
in  love  I  fear  no  good  will  come  of  reasoning  with  thee.  Wilt  thou 
listen  to  me  ? 

Giles.  Aye,  aye,  master. 

Mil.  Tell  me,  what  dost  intend  by  marrying  Phebe  1 

Giles.  Intend  !  why  to  be  happy  with  her. 

Geo.  [Interrupting  him.]  Never,  not  while  I 

Mil.  [Stojiping  him.]  Rot  it,  thou  art  as  hot  as  he.  Be  quiet,  wilt 
thee  7  [To  Giles.]  How  could'st  hope  to  be  happy  if  she  loved 
another  >. 

Giles.  Eh? 

Mil.  Suppose  thee  marry'd  Phebe,  and  she  loved  George? 

Giles.  I'd  shoot  him. 

Mil.  Well  ! 

Giles.  Well !  [A  2>ause.] 


6  THE    MltLEIt'S    MAID, 

Mil.  Would  that  make  thee  happier  1  Would  that  make  Phebe  love 
thee,  because  thou  hadst  killed  the  man  she  did  love.  [Another pause.} 
Come,  come,  leave  it  to  the  wench  herself,  meantime  shake  hands, 
lads,  and  be  friends. 

Giles.  No,  I  thank  thee. 

Geo.  Indeed  I  had  rather 

Mil.  [Aside  to  George]  Harkee,  thee  lovest  Phebe — if  you  thought, 
she  preferred  Giles  it  would  make  thee  miserable. 

Geo.  Miserable  !  it  would  make  me  mad. 

Mil.  What  do'st  think  then  he  must  feel  who  loves  her  also,  amiyet 
suspects  her  preference  for  you.     Think  ye  he  mus'nt  feel  it  too  1 

Geo.  [After  a  moments  pause.]  Giles,  there's  my  hand.  [Giles  re- 
fuses it. 

Mil.  Take  it  Giles — how!  harkee,  this  in  thine  ear,  [Aside  to  him.] 
the  girl  has  not  declared  for  either  yet,  therefore  thy  chance  may  be 
as  good  as  his.  Be  friends,  and  I  will  promise  this — this  day  she  shall 
decide  for  one,  and  him  she  do  decline,  must  think  no  more  about  her. 

Giles.  One  can't  help  thinking,  master. 

Mil.  Then  he  may  think  on  some  one  else  that  will  be  kinder  to  him. 
I've  enough  to  do  to  keep  these  chaps  from  quarrelling.  Come,  no 
more  ado,  but  get  to  your  work,  it  shall  be  as  I  say,  and  look,  the  sun 
be  up.     To  the  mill,  lads,  and  to  work. 

[The  sim  by  this  time  has  risen  and  illuminated  the  whole  landscape, 
which  in  the  front  and  back  ground  is  now  all  in  motion.  Giles 
and  George  return  to  the  mill,  and  opening  various  shutters,  the 
whole  machinery  of  the  mill  is  seen  at  ivork  through  all  the  nume- 
rous openings.  George  perceived  employed  in  one  story.  Giles  in 
another.  The  different  locks  are  worked,  the  water  rushes  and  falls, 
and  various  barges  work  their  way  up  the  stream. 

Mil.  So.  now  the  bustle  of  the  clay  begins,  the  sun  has  spread  tho 
signal,  and  yonder  go  the  village  workmen,  who  celebrate  its  rising 
and  its  setting,  opening  and  closing  their  employments  with  contented 
minds  and  grateful  hearts  to  him  who  sanctioned  earthly  labor  with 
his  own. 

[Sits  down  at  door  of  house  to  table,  with  book  and  accounts.  The 
music  runs  into  the  symphony  of  Puebe's  song  icho  enters,  r.  h. 

SONG— Phebe. 

How  bright  with  pearl  the  eastern  sky. 

How  glorious  far  and  wide, 
Yon  lines  of  golden  clouds  that  lie, 

So  peaceful  side  by  side. 

Green  hill  that  shad'st  the  valley  here. 

Thou  bear'st  upon  thy  brow, 
The  only  wealth  to  Peebe  dear; 

And  all  she'll  ever  know. 


TIIE    MILLER  S    MAID.  7 

[At  the  end  the  miller  doses  his  accounts  and  accosts  her. 

Mil.  Good  morning,  Phebe.  [Com.es  k.]  Whither  art  trudging, 
wench  1 

Phebe.  Over  to  the  barn,  sir,  to  seek  for  new  laid  eggs.  Your 
good  dame  complained  last  night,  and  eat  no  supper,  therefore  per- 
haps ior  breakfast 

Mil.  You  thought  she  might  be  tempted  to  partake,  if  she  beheld 
them  on  the  table.  Good  wench,  just  so  thou  hast  tricked  me  oft  to 
eat  when  my  late  sickness  shut  my  heart  to  food.  Thou  art  a  good 
wench,  and  yet  thee  makest  sad  havoc  Phebe. 

Phebe.  Havoc,  sir  !  Indeed  I'm  careful,  very  careful.  Havoc,  sir  ! 
in  what  ] 

Mil.  Why,  in  all  our  young  men's  hearts  here,  and  I'm  afraid, 
Phebe,  [taking  her  hand,]  thine  own  lias  not  escaped  scot  free.  Well, 
well,  I've  done,  and  yet  'tis  fit  I  talk  with  thee — not  now,  but  soon. 
There  get  thee  gone — but  harkce,  keep  thine  eyes  off  the  mill,  or  I 
rlmll  get  no  work  done  there,  [.is  she  passes  the  mill  George  salutes 
her. J  Hot  thee!  mind  thy  work  do.  [Throwing  his  hat  at  George.] 
Oh,  this  love — this  love,  it's  a  main  foe  to  business.  [Hurrying  music. 
Dame  enters  from  the  house  and  crosses  the  stage.]  Why,  how  now, 
Dame!  thee  look'st  angry  sure,  and  why  this  haste? 

Unite.  Angry,  forsooth!  look  there,  [Pointing  to  one  shutter  in  the 
mi  I  Sjf ill  closed,}  neither  his  eves  or  the  shutters  opened  yet. 

Mil.  Whose  ! 

Dame.  Matty's.     Aye,  thou'st  an  idle  graceless  varlet  in  that  lad. 

Mil.  Lazy,  I  fear.  But  who  knows,  'tis  scarcely  three  days  since 
I  took  the  boy  from  the  village  workhouse  and  the  parish  school, 
where  having  but  newly  learnt  to  read,  (and  the  only  one  of  his  kin 
that  ever  did)  he  now  in  pride  do  give  his  mind  to  nought  but  books. 

Dame.  And  what  books  1  Why,  children's  histories  and  (airy  tales, 
which  all  go  down  for  truth.  Aye,  aye,  books  in  their  way  be  well 
enough,  but  if  we  read  not  the  right  sort,  they  oft  do  more  harm  than 
good  1  fear. 

Mil.  That's  like  enough  to  be  the  case  here,  Dame,  for  as  he  were 
rower  told  what  books  were  best,  he  reads  none  but  such  as  pleases 
h.m  :  and  so  proud  that  he  can  read.  They  have  half  turned  his  brain, 
1  /ear  already. 

Dame.  Poor  simpleton  !  and  he's  not  a  grain  to  spare.  But  I  have 
spoilt  his  studies  for  the  time  to  come. 

Mil.  Why,  what  hast  done  1  no  mischief. 

Dame.  Nnjmlv  thrown  his  hoard  of  books  into  the  fire. 

Mil.  What  did'st  that  for,  Darnel 

Dame.  To  teach  him  he  must  earn  his  bread  by  labor  ere  he  cats  it. 
T  >o  many  I  fear,  with  too  little  learning  and  less  of  sense  do  waste 
their  time  iu  reading  or  in  writing  books  which  were  far  better  spent 
it.  honest  industry. 

Mil.  Well,  but  thou  didn'st  burn  them  alii 

Dame  All.  Peter  Wilkins,  Seven  Champions,  Friar  Bacon,  Fair 
1    raamond,  Robinson  Crusoe,  aud  half  a  hundred  more. 


8  THE    MILLER'S    MAID. 

Mil.  Come,  thee  should  have  left  him  one  or  so. 

Dame.  I  verily  believe  the  varlet  stole  one  from  the  flames.  But 
where  ishel  never  at  his  work.  [Calling.]  Giles!  Giles!  step  thee, 
and  ope  young  Matty's  window  there.  [Giles  going  by  the  outside 
railing  of  the  'mill,  forces  a  shutter  nearly  at  the  top,  when  Matty  is 
seen  seated  upon  some  sacks,  l.  u.,  so  deeply  intent  on  his  book,  that  he 
is  roused  by  nothing  passing  around  him.  The  remains  of  a  candle 
burning  on  another  sack  as  though  he  had  been  up  all  night.]  There! 
there!  husband,  dost  see  1  Grant  me  patience,  all  might  have  been 
burnt  in  their  beds.     Let  me  come  near,  I'll  rouse  the  varlet. 

[Music. — Exit  into  mill,  z.  h. 

3Id.  Well,  well,  Dame  ;  I  shall  leave  thee  to  manage  the  scholar,  I 
must  look  after  the  mill,  else  between  love  and  learning  the  grist  may 
grind  itself  I  fear. 

[The  dame  arrives  at  Matty's  side  before  he  is  apprised  of  her  intent, 
and  with  one  bloiv  knocks  him  off  the  sack — he  instantly  scrambles 
tip  his  book  and  escapes  through  the  shutter,  where  he  is  enabled  to 
keep  his  mistress  at  bay  till  she  retires — he  scrambles  down  the  out- 
side of  the  mill  and  comes  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  where  she  fol- 
lows him. 

Dame.  Give  it  me — give  me  that  book,  I  say.  How  came  you  by 
it,  sirrah  1 

Mat.  Saved  it  from  fire  and  brimstone,  mistress,  j'our  fury  and  the 
kitchen  flames,  where  all  my  valued  library  was  destroyed. 

Dame.  Library,  indeed!     But  what  is  it  you  have  saved  1 

Mat.  [Earnestly.]  By  the  greatest  mercy,  Philip  Squall. 

Dame.  I'll  make  thee  squall,  varlet,  and  thou  waste's  thy  time  read- 
ing such  nonsense. 

Mat.  Nonsense  !  Why,  mistress,  it's  all  true,  it  names  the  very 
place  he  lived  in.    An  unknown  island.    Wonderful  man  !  he  kept 

Dame.  He  would'st  have  kept  thee. 

Mat.  Would'st  he  indeed  !  Why  he  kept  a  monkey  who  made  his 
beds,  drank  his  wine  and  did  all  his  work,  so  that  he  had  nothing  to 
do.  Wonderful  man  !  Look  here,  mistress,  here's  his  picture.  [Shoivs 
frontispiece.]  I  scrambled  it  out  of  the  fire  just  as  his  legs  were  burnt 
oil',  but  I  saved  his  bare  body  and  his  bear-skin  breeches.  Look, 
mistress. 

Dame.  [Stealing  behind  and  seizing  it.]  And  look,  master,  for  it's 
the  last  you'il  see  of  it. 

Mat.  [Earnestly  and  half  in  tears.]  Why,  mistress,  thou  wouldn'st 
now — now  thou  wouldn'st  burn  that  too  1 

Dame.  Every  leaf. 

Mat.  [In  horror.]  What  a  maker  of  martyrs  !  why,  mistress,  what 
can  you  possibly  expect  1  Twas  but  yesterday  you  put  Christendom 
in  flames,  and  burnt  its  seven  champions  !  ram  d  the  red-hot  poker 
through  Peter  Wilkins  !  fried  eggs  with  Friar  Bacon !  frizzled  Fair 
Rosamond!  and  now,  [bursting  into  tears,]  inflammable  cruelty! 
you'd  boil  the  pot  with  Phillip  Squall.  Yes,  every  bit  of  him  will  go 
now  !  body  and  breeches  !  wonderful  man  !  wicked  woman  ! 


THE    MILLER  S    MAID.  V 

Dame.  Mark  me  sirrah!  But  no — I'll  first  try  kindness  with  thee  ; 
be  a  good  lad.  Come,  read  and  welcome,  when  tliy  work  is  done  ;  and 
to  encourage  thee,  I'll  buy  thee  books  that  shall  improve  thy  mind. 
Nay,  if  thou'll  promise  to  be  diligent  I'll  not  burn  this,  and  it  shall  be 
thine  again  after  a  good  day's  work.  [He  stretches  out  his  hand  fur  it. 

[Exit  Dame  into  cottage,  r.  h. 

Mat.  Ah!  I  should  be  sorry  to  make  such  a  good  day's  work,  mis- 
tress, as  you  did  with  my  library.  Poor  ignorant  woman!  calls  read- 
ing wasting  time.  How  often  have  I  heard  schoolmaster  say — "Read 
ancient  history,"  and  what's  more  ancient  than  the  history  of  Philip 
Squall  ?  It's  so  long  since  he  died,  that  nobody  can  say  whether  he 
lived  at  all.  It's  always  the  case,  masters  and  mistresses  don't  like 
their  servants  to  know  more  than  they  do  themselves.  Ah !  merit, 
merit.  One  book  I  read  says  that  merit  gets  over  all  difficulties.  How 
shall  I  get  over  mine  ?  I  have  it !  a  great  thought !  a  proof  of  merit ! 
my  books  are  gone,  I  can't  read  history,  I'll  invent !  I'll  write  one  ! 
I  forgot;  I  ean't  write,  another  difficulty.  How  will  merit  get  over 
that? 

Enter  George  with  a  letter  from  mill,  l.  h.  1st  e. 

Geo.  Now  to  get  this  letter  conveyed  to  Phebe.  Ha  !  Matty,  here ! 
no  one  will  suspect  him.     Matty,  my  good  lad,  can  I  trust  you? 

Mat.  With  any  thing,  with  every  thing,  as  Philip  Squall  did  the 
monkey. 

Geo.  You  have  not  been  long  at  the  mill,  but  you  know  our  miller's 
maid — Phebe  the  lair. 

Mat.  As  Fair  Rosamond.     Oh,  what  a  creature! 

Geo.  Isn't  she? 

Mat.  Oh,  how  I  loved  her  once  ! 

Geo.  You  loved,  indeed  !  how  dare  Phe Who  did  you  say  you 

loved  ? 

Mat.  Why,  Fair  Rosamond.  Ah  !  many  a  night  I've  laid  awake 
and  cried  about  her,  and  should  to  this  day,  if  1  had  not  happened  to 
read  about  Jane  Shore. 

Geo.  And  she  rivalled  Fair  Rosamond  in  your  good  graces,  eh  ? 

Mat.  Bless  you,  then  I  didn't  know  which  I  liked  best.  Which  do 
you  think  was  prettiest ! 

Geo.  Indeed  I  cannot  tell. 

Mat.  No  !  Do  read  ancient  history.  Why,  Fair  Rosamond.  Ah, 
poor  soul !  my  heart  aches  when  I  think  of  her,  she  was  used  almost 
as  bad  as  mistress  served  her  t'other  day.  Queen  Elinor  pisoned,  Mis- 
tress burnt  her ;  burn  me  if  I  don't  christen  mistress,  Queen  Elinor, 
for  her  cruelty.     Poor  Rosamond  !  wonderful  woman! 

Geo.  Aye,  and  you  are  a  wonderful  lad. 

Mat.  Yes,  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that. 

Geo.  Now  listen  to  me  one  moment,  this  letter  which  I  have  just 
written 

Mat.  Ah,  you  can  write.     What  a  pity  !  [Siahina 

Geo.  What?  I    »—» 

Mat.  That  I  can't.     Oh,  if  I  could  !  if  I  could. 


10  TOE    MILLER'S    MAID. 

Geo.  Nay,  if  it  will  so  materially  serve  you,  and  you  will  deliver 
this  safe  for  me,  I'm  sure  I'll  write  any  thing  for  you,  you  wish. 

Mat.  Will  you  1  now  I  see  difficulties  are  nothing  to  merit — well 
then,  I'll  invent  and  you  shall  write. 

Geo.  What? 

Mat.  Histories. 

Geo.  Nonsense. 

Mat.  Non Get  another  currier. 

[Indignantly  returning  the  letter,  and  going  up  stage. 

Geo.  [Aside.]  1  must  humor  him.  Well,  well,  I'll  write  any  thing 
you  wish. 

Mat.  Aye,  it  he  easy  enough  to  write  any  thing,  hut  then  to  invent. 
Ah  !  that  requires  a  head.  Now,  shall  it  be  a  history  or  a  fairy  talc  ? 
I've  head  enough  for  both.  Yes,  yes,  I  think  I  have  a  head  ;  grant 
me  fortune,  but  a  tale.  A  striking !  horrid  !  agonising  !  heart-rend- 
ing 1     Oh,  grant  me  one  request !  an  interesting  tale.      [Exit,  r.  h. 

Geo.  Simpleton!  But  he  will  be  the  least  suspected,  and  I  hope  will 
find  means  to  deliver  my  letter  unknown  to  Giles,  whose  jealousy 
breaks  out  into  ferocity.  But  now  he  left  the  mill  and  meditates,  I 
fear,  some  plan  inimical  to  Phebe's  happiness  And  then  the  squire, 
there  too  I  am  alarmed.  Ah  !  this  love,  it  sees  so  many  obstacles  to 
happiness,  and  where  the  heart  of  a  worthy  girl  is  its  object.  Perhaps 
it's  right  it  should  be  so,  for  the  more  difficulty  we  have  in  gaining, 
the  more  highly  we  are  apt  to  estimate  its  virtues  when  in  possession 
of  it.  [Exit,  l.  h. 

SCENE  II. — Copse — rustic  pathway,  terminated  by  a  gate — distant 
view  of  the  mill — brook,  §~c. 

Enter  Gamekeeper,  r.  h. 

Game.  No  game  comes  amiss  to  my  master,  the  squire.  Women 
are  as  welcome  as  woodcocks,  though,  thank  heaven  !  not  so  plentiful, 
for  as  I  have  the  care  of  both,  and  find  the  girls  most  difficult  to  catch 
I  don't  care  how  seldom  they  start  in  view.  Now,  however,  nothing 
will  serve  him  but  the  miller's  maid.  I've  laid  a  plan  ;  she  has  two 
lovers  at  the  mill.  Giles,  the  most  jealous,  must  be  persuaded,  to  run 
away  with  her.  On  the  road,  my  master  intercepts  and  gets  her  from 
him.  Good  !  Giles  still  has  the  blame,  my  master  the  girl.  That's 
what  I  call  plotting  like  a  statesman.  But  here  she  comes,  I'll  (alk 
to  her  a  little  myself,  I  shall  then  be  able  to  judge  whether  she's 
worth  the  trouble  she's  giving  us.  [  Gamekeeper  retires. 

Enter  Phebe,  l.  h. 

SONG— Phebe. 

What  was  it  roused  my  soul  to  love, 
What  made  the  simple  brook  so  dear 

It  glided  like  the  weary  dove  ; 

And  never  brook  seem'd  half  so  clear 


THE    UnLERS    MAID.  11 

There  faint  beneath  the  fervid  sun, 

I  gazed  in  ruminating  mood, 
For  who  can  see  the  current  run, 

And  snatch  no  feast  of  mental  food. 

Cool  passed  the  current  at  my  feet. 

Its  shelving  brink  for  rest  was  made, 
But  every  charm  is  incomplete, 

Whene'er  it  lacks  another's  shade. 

Game.  [Coming  forward,  n.  n.]  Very  pretty  !  oh,  the  voice  will  do 
for  us,  and  so  will  the  person  ;  but  perhaps  the  girl's  a  fool  after  all. 
I'll  try  her  sense.  How  d'ye  do  my  dear!  Come,  come,  stay  where 
you  are,  I'm  your  friend. 

Phebe.  If  you  are,  sir,  you'll  suffer  me  to  pass. 

Game.  Shan't  go  till  you  have  heard  me. 

Phebe.  Sir,  I  have  other  employment  now,  than  listening  to  folly. 

Game.  Aye,  aye,  but  none  so  gratifying,  girl  as  hearing  your  own 
praise. 

Phebe.  Yes,  sir — that  of  having  deserved  it     Leave  me. 

[Crosses  him,  R. 

Game.  Upon  my  word  the  girl  has  sense,  too  much  for  my  master, 
'twould  be  thrown  away  upon  him,  I  shall  reserve  her  for  myself. 

[Exit,  L.  H. 
Phebe  is  going  on  the  other  side  and  meets  Hatty,  r.  h.,  who  is  must 
consequentially  wrapt  up  in  his  oxen  cogitations. 

Mat.  Once  on  a  time  there  was  a  king— no — a  prince — no,  a  giant; 
no — well,  how  very  surprising  that  I  should  be  so  stupid  this  morn- 
ing. Well  for  the  life  of  it,  my  head  can't  hit  upon  a  tale — oh,  for 
an  object !  [Striking  his  head.]  Critical  moment!  There  was  a  king 
who  set  out 

Phebe.  Hey  day  !     Where  are  you  going,  Matty  1 

Mat.  On  a  journey  to  the  Black  mountains.       f Nat  hearing  her. 

Phebe.  And  pray  what  may  you  be  going  to  do  there? 

Mat.  [Still  absorbed.]  To  combat  with  a  giant  with  three  heads. 

Phebe.  [Aside.]  Poor  lad,  if  you  had  one  with  any  sense  ill  it,  it 
would  be  better   for  you.     Well,  Matty,  and  what  will  you  do  next'* 

Mat.  Keep  a  princess. 

Phebe.  Indeed  !  and  what  will  you  do  with  her] 

Mat.  Treat  her  cruelly — in 

Phebe.  [Pointing  to  letter.]  Tray,  what's  that  you  have  in  your 
hand  7 

Mat.  A  brazen  castle  with  forty  eaics. 

Phebe.  Why,  Matty  !    He  doesn't  hear  me.     Matty,  i  say. 

{■fogging  him. 

Mat.  Heigho  !  How  d'ye  do  1  Critical  moment.  I'm  composing 
Great !  Sublime ! — don't  bother. 

Phebe.  Nonsense.     Who's  that  letter  for,  I  say  7 

Mat    Letter  !     Oh,  now  I  remember.     Why  it's  for  you. 


12  THE    MILLER'S    JIArD. 

Phebe.  And  pray  wlio  docs  it  come  from  1 

Mat.  Mum  !  a  mystery. 

Phebe.  Then  as  I  don't  deal  in  them,  I  shall  not  take  it.  From  Giles, 
I  suppose ;  or,  probably,  from  the  stranger  who  was  here  just  now, 
either  may  have  suborned  this  simpleton.  And  pray,  master  Matty, 
have  you  no  better  work  you  could  employ  yourself  upon  1 

Mat.  Work!  oh,  such  alone  !  I'm  about  it  now.  Wonderful  work .' 
But  then  I  want  a  proper  object  for  my  talons  to  fix  upon. 

Phebe.  That  won't  be  your  mistress's  case,  the  moment  she  gets 
sight  of  you,  1  fancy. 

Mat.  Don't  tease  me  about  Queen  Eleanor,  but  take  the  letter. 

Phebe.  Indeed  I  shall  not. 

Mai.  No  !     AVhy  it  comes  from 

Phebe.  1  don't  want  to  hear,  Nor  wdl  I  take  mysterious  letter-} 
from  any  one,  unless  to  deliver  to  your  master,  that  he  may  know  bow 
you  are  employed. 

Mat.  lie  know  how  I  am  employed !  nobody  knows  !  I  don't  know 
myself.  But  come,  my  time's  too  precious  to  waste  on  you.  I  want 
a  horrid  object.     Will  you  take  this  letter  ] 

Phebe.  No,  I  positively  will  not. 

Mat.  No  ]  then  all  my  study's  thrown  away.  He  was  only  to  write 
for  me  in  case  she  took  the  letter.  Ah,  genius  !  you  may  hide  your 
head,  fur  you've  lost  your  tale.     Yes,  George  will  never  write  it  now. 

Phebe.  George  !  Did — did— George  write  it  1  Did  George  send  that 
letter,  Matty  1     I  think  I  will  take  it. 

Mat.  Yes,  I  know  you  will  take  it,  and  give  it  to  your  master  you 
said.    No,  I  shall  destroy  it,  because  George  said  it  was  of  consequence 

Phebe.  How  provoking !  but  there  is  but  one  way  of  obtaining  it 
"Well,  Matty,  since  you  will  not  give  me  it,  I  shall  keep  to  myself  the 
two  histories  and  fairy  tales  I  meant  to  have  purchased  for  you  at 

Mat.  Purchase  history  !  phoo  !  I  can  make  'em.  I'm  making  cne 
now,  that  George  is  to  write  for  me. 

Phebe.  On  condition  you  delivered  this  letter.  "Well,  give  it  me,  and 
when  he  writes  one,  I  promise  you  to  write  another. 

Mat.  Will  you]  What  two  histories  1  Take  the  letter ;  but  then 
I  shall  want  two  tales.  Let's  see,  one  shall  be  long  !  t'other  short ! 
one  interesting  !  t'other  striking  !  one  horrid  !  t'other  captivating  ! 
What  a  head  1  must  have.     I'll  set  about  one  directly. 

[Matty  retires  to  compose,  l. 

Phebe.  [After  reading  the  letter.]  Ah,  George,  thy  warnings  are 
needless,  and  I  hope  thy  fears;  but  I  will  store  thy  caution  where  I 

have  already  deposited  esteem,  and ah  !  yonder  comes  Giles,  I  will 

avoid  him,  for  as  our  inclinations  do  not  meet,  neither  should  we  on- 
counter  ;  for  when  once  a  female  deems  it  proper  to  decline  the  ad- 
dresses of  a  lover,  to  throw  herself  voluntarily  in  his  way  is  but  exci- 
ting feelings  'tis  a  cruelty  to  protract.  Exit,  e.  h. 

Mat.  [Comes  forward.]  Writing  histories  an't  so  easy  as  I  thought. 
Ah,  the  day  when  its  finished  !  there'll  be  a  day  !  Oh,  happy  the 
man  who  first  sees  the  end  of  his  tale. 


THE    MILLER'S    MAID.  13 

SONG— Matty. 
Written  by  W.  Arnold,  Esq.         Tune — Young  Lobski. 

When  little  I  went  to  old  Whackemwell's  school, 
Who  can'd  me,  and  call'd  me  a  dunce  and  a  fool ; 
But  when  I  grew  larger  I  alter'd  things  quite, 
And  soon  learn'd  to  read  though  I  never  could  write. 

I  became  quite  a  dab  at  my  spelling  d'ye  see. 
But  for  pothooks  and  hangers  they  so  bothered  me  ; 
So  says  1  as  for  pothooks  I'll  try  one  or  two, 
But  as  to  the  hangers  I'm  hang'd  if  I  do. 

Now  my  studies  are  ended,  I'll  try  just  for  fun, 

If  I  cannot  turn  author  as  others  have  done  ; 

For  I'm  told  that  to  write  what  a  book  now  contains, 

Requires  no  wonderful  portion  of  brains. 

Some  people  now  only  write  books  I  am  told, 

Not  that  books  may  be  read,  but  that  books  may  be  sold ; 

And  as  heads  have  so  little  to  do  with  the  sale, 

I'm  determined  the  world  to  surprise  with  my  tale. 

{Exit,  B.  H. 

Re-enter  Gamekeeper  and  Giles,  l.  h. 

Game.  There,  you  see  she  avoids  you ;  George  is  the  lad  that  car- 
ries her. 

Giles.  He  shan't. 

Game.  You  can  only  prevent  it  by  the  plan  I  advised. 

Giles.  What!  run  away  with  herl 

Game.  Aye,  that's  the  way  to  gain  her. 

Giles.  Her  person — but  I  want  her  heart. 

Game.  Oh,  that  will  soon  follow,  she  will  be  glad  to  marry  you  to 
save  her  reputation.  Come,  no  dallying,  it  must  be  done  to-night,  she 
may  declare  for  George  to-morrow,  and  the  following  day  the  old 
folks  give  him  the  mill ;  so  by  delay  you  arc  choused  out  of  your  wifo 
and  fortune. 

Giles.  P«,ot  the  fortune  ! 

Game.  But  not  the  wench,  eh!  I  see  you  love  her,  and  she  will 
soon  return  it ;  d'ye  think  she  won't  pardon  a  crime  her  own  beauty 
caused  1  but  however,  do  as  you  will,  two  days  will  see  her  your  wife 
or  his. 

Giles    Mine,  mine! 

Game.  A  little  decision  only  makes  her  so. 

Giles.  [Firmly.]  I'll  do't. 

Game.  And  here's  my  hand  to  assist  you. 

Giles.  No,  I  thankee,  it's  a  bad  act.  I've  a  reason  for  being  a  rogue, 
bo  I  suppose  has  every  body,  and  as  I  don't  know  yours,  I'd  better 
trust  to  myself. 


14  tiie  miller's  maid. 

Game.  Oh,  I've  the  same  reason  as  yours,  a  petticoat,  and  want 
the  same  assistance  to  carry  it  off  that  I  offer  you ;  you  know  Susan 
Fellows  1 

Giles.  You  wouldn't  carry  her  off? 

Game.  Why  not  1 

Giles.  Why,  because  she's  a  poor  blind  father  who  she  do  support 
by  her  work. 

Game.  Aye,  but  she's  a  pretty  girl. 

Giles.  Come,  come,  thee  musn't  think  on't. 

Game.  Think  on't  !  it's  all  settled — my  mind's  made  up. 

Giles.  What !  to  steal  her  from  her  father,  and  thee  expect  me  to 
assist  1 

Game.  Certainly. 

Giles.  I'd  see  thee  hang'd,  shot,  drown'd  first. 

Game.  Why,  zounds  !  an't  I  to  assist  thee  1 

Giles.  Don't  then — don't.  Thee  shan't.  It's  a  bad  deed,  and  I'll  do 
it  myself.  I  know  its  bad,  but  I  love  Phebe,  and  when  its  done  I'll 
marry  her.  Lovelier!  die  to  make  her  happy.  But  thee — tell  thee 
what ;  if  thee  attempt  to  rob  the  poor  blind  man  of  his  only  nurse — 
his  prop — his  child  !  bans;  me,  if  I  wouldn't  seize  thee  by  the  throat, 
and  jump  with  thee  into  the  mill-stream  ;  nor  loose  my  gripe  till  one 
or  both  were  drowned.  [Crosses  to  k.]  So — there — I  ha'  told  you  my 
mind  ;  so  now  do  as  thee  lik'st.  [Exit,  r.  ii. 

Game.  What  a  brute  !  rustic  prejudices  !  living  wholly  in  the  coun- 
try. Well,  one  of  my  schemes  must  be  given  up,  either  my  girl  or  my 
master's.  I  would  very  willingly  give  the  squire  the  preference  here, 
but  I  see  that  by  serving  him  I  avenge  him.  Giles  must  be  soothed — 
I  must  appear  to  relent,  for  Phebe  must  be  carried  off  and  by  him.  1 
must  assist  in  order  not  to  lose  sight  of  her,  and  when  once  in  our 
power,  Giles  may,  if  he  pleases,  return  and  throw  himself  into  the  mill- 
stream  ;  but  were  I  to  accompany  him,  I  fear  it  would  be  throwing  a 
damp  on  my  spirits  of  enterprise  for  ever  after.  [Exit,  l.  h. 

SCEXE  III— The  Miller's  kitchen — a  large  table  set  oat  for  the  dinner 
of  the  workmen,  who  are  seated  around  it — George  and  Giles  on 
either  side,  both  apparently  abstracted  in  thought — a  smaller  table, 
at  which  are  seated  the  Miller  and  his  Wife — Phebe  pensively 
leaning  on  the  Dame's  chair. 

Mil.  There,  thank  heaven  for  a  good  meal !  and  now  get  thee  to 
labor  with  merry  grateful  hearts,  and  so  we'll  meet  again  with  hearty 
appetites. 

[All  the  work  people  bow.  and  retire,  d.  f.  except  Giles  and  George  who 
with  Phebe  appears  lost  to  every  thing  around  them. 

Mil.  Dame!     [Rises  and  dratcs  Dame  forward.]     I  say  Dame! 

[Pointing  aside  to  them.]  More  dumplings  saved. 

Dame.  Alack,  alack!  poor  things  !  what  can  they  live  uponl 

Mil.  Love,  Dame,   love  ;  and  since  it  makes  folks  too  lazy  to  earn 

their  victuals,  it  be  right  it  should  take  away  all  appetite  to  eat  'em. 


THE    MILLER'S    MAID.  15 

Dame.  That  can't  last  for  ever. 

Mil.  What,  love- !  It  an't  accused  of  that  often,  it  don't  stop  with 
the  same  folks  long  ;  but  it  does  a  deal  o'mischief  in  a  short  time. 

Dame.  Mischief,  indeed!  look  at  wench.  Poor  thing,  my  heart  do 
ache  for  her 

Mil.  Ah  !  'tis  high  time  the  girl  were  cured.  I  must  be  her  doctor, 
I  see 

Dame.  Thee,  cure  a  girl  of  love  !  what  do'st  thee  talk  about  1 

Mil.  I  tell  thee,  I'll  cure  her.    I'll  marry  her. 

Dame.  Indeed  thee  won't. 

Mil.  Come,  come,  don't  be  jealous,  dame.  Phebe,  bring  thee  hero 
my  great  chair.  [Phebe  absorbed,  brings  the  chair  nearest  to  her.] 
My  great  chair,  I  said — my  arm-chair.  [Phebe  blushes  and  brings  it.] 
Now  thee  be  quiet,  dame.    Phebe — I  have  sad  complaints  to  make. 

Phebe.  Of  me,  sir  !  in  what  have  I  offended  1 

Geo.  [Starting  up.]  Phebe,  guilty,  sir  !  Of  what  1 

Mil.  Oh  !  thee  need'nt  be  so  forward,  boy,  to  take  her  part,  thee  art 
an  accomplice  with  her,  and  Giles  too,  for  what  I  know.  One  of  thee 
has  stolen 

GUes.    }Stol*n. 

Dame.  Stolen  1  why  I  havn't  missed 

Mil.  Nor  I  thy  tongue.  Dame,  be  quiet,  or  I'll  send  thee  out  of 
court.     I  say  one  of  thee  have  stolen 

GUes.    |  What,  sir] 

Mil.  All  poor  Phebe's  spirits  from  ner.  Her  health — appetite — nay, 
h*<irt  is  gone.     Answer  now — which  is  the  thief? 

Dame.  [Going  to  her.]  Look  how  the  poor  wench  colors.  Thee  art 
too  rough  with  the  girl. 

Mil.  And  can't  I  be  rough  with  the  girls  without  thy  notice.  Dame, 
thou  wilt  be  meddling.  Phebe,  'tis  time  this  sickness  should  be  cured. 
Cosue,  come,  speak  out  boldly,  girl,  don't  be  ashamed  to  name  an  hon- 
est man  thy  choice  and  make  him  happy. 

Phebe.  Spare  me  !  I  beseech  you. 

Dame.  Consider  the  poor  girl's  delicacy. 

Mil.  I  do,  dame,  she's  too  delicate  by  half;  she'll  die  with  it  ere 
long. 

Dame.  It  will  not  he  thy  case,  I  warrant. 

Mil.  Phebe,  'tis  fit  you  should  decide,  and  circumstances  dos't 
strongly  press  thee  now.  Come,  come — well,  and  thee'll  not,  1  must 
e'en  do  it  for  thee.  I'll  find  the  way,  I  warrant  me,  to  fix  upon  the  man. 
[Aside.]  Come  hither,  lads.  Giles,  thee  was  first  at  the  mill,  and  as 
she  must  have  known  thee  longest,  why,  I  naturally  conclude  that 
thee  must  be  her  choice. 

Giles.  Me  !  what,  I !  I  master  ! 

Phebe.  [Interrupting  him  hastily.]  No — no— no — 'tis — 'tis — Oh, 
Madam  !  speak  for  me.      [Throwing  herself  into  her  misiress's  arms. 

Dame.  Gilbert !  Gilbert !  thee  art  mad. 


16  THE    MILLER'S    MAID. 

Mil.  "Why,  what  be  the  matter  now  1 

Dame.  Matter  !  thee  hast  decided  wrong. 

Mil.  Oh,  then  George  he  the  man  after  all. 

Giles.  [Aside.]  Not  while  I  live  ! 

Dame.  Why,  hasn't  seen  that  some  time  1  pshaw  !  thou  a  judge  of 
love  !  heaven  help  the  man.     Come,  come,  Phebe,  it  be  all  over  now. 

Geo.  Btit  will  not  Phebe  by  a  word,  confirm  my  happiness  1 

Phebe.  I  am  an  orphan,  George,  beholden  for  all  I  now  enjoy  to 
this  worthy  pair.  Beholden  not  only  for  the  means  of  existence,  but 
what  is  dearer  to  an  honest  mind — the  precepts  of  religion  and  virtus. 

Mil.  There,  now  thee  should'st  be  silent ;  thou  cans't  speak 

Phebe.  And  will  be  heard.  In  you  I  have  beheld  the  example  of 
benevolence  !  from  you  imbibed  the  stimulus  to  active  industry  !  en- 
joyed all  the  blessings  of  a  child  ;  and  now,  as  would  become  your 
daughter,  in  all  that  may  concern  my  future  welfare,  submit  myself 
to  your  counsel  and  advice. 

Mil.  And  thee  shall  have  it,  as  thou  wert  indeed  my  own.  Giles, 
thou  art  an  honest  lad,  as  such  we  all  respect  thee;  but,  thou  see'st 
the  wench's  mind  and — and — and — so  thee  can'st  have  her. 

Giles.  [Aside,  musing.]  Hum  !     We  don't  know  that  yet. 

Phebe.  Giles,  I  ever  shall  esteem  thee  as  my  friend — nay  brother. 
As  such,  will  you  not  give  me  your  hand] 

Giles.  [After  a  pause.]  There,  there  ! 

Phebe.  And  George,  will  you  not  give  it  him  ] 

Giles.  No — I — no. 

Mil.  What,  man  !  can'st  refuse  the  wench  1  Why,  should  aught  hap- 
pen to  break  this  match,  thou  bear'st  her  next  good  will,  and  things 
be  far  from  settled  yet. 

Giles.  Dost  mean  that  she  would  marry  me,  should  any  thing  cross 
the  match  with  George  1 

Mil.  I  do.  We  scarce  know  aught  about  him,  yet,  and  when  we  do 
perchance,  may  like  him  less. 

Giles.  Aye,  but  Phebe. 

Mil.  Come  hither,  girl.  It  rests  with  thee  to  make  these  rivals, 
friends  !  or  keep  them  enemies. 

Phebe.  Does  it,  sir  1     Say  how  1 

Mil.  By  promising  it,  thou  refuse  the  one  to  take  the  other. 

Phebe.  You  are  my  father — speak  for  me. 

Mil.  I  will;  and  in  thy  name  do  promise  it:  so  now,  Giles,  give  thy 
hand,  and  join  with  us,  lad,  to  bless  our  Phebe's  husband,  whoe'er  he 
be.  [Aside  to  him.]  Come,  who  knows  yet  what  the  chances  may  bo 
for  you. 

Giles.  I  do,  what  they  shall  be.  [Aside.]  With  all  my  heart  I  do.  I 
do  bless  Phebe's  husband,  whoe'er  he  be. 

[Having  pronounced  this  emphatically  and  with  double  meaning,  he 
2)asses  with  exultation  to  his  scat. 

Mil.  And  now,  George,  before  that  matters  do  proceed,  'tis  fit  that 
thee  and  Phebe  should  know  each  other;  there  should  be  no  disguise- 
ment  in  the  married  state,  where  folks  do  look  for  happiness. 


THE    MILLER'S    MAID.  17 

Dame.  Phebe,  stand  forth,  my  girl,  and  tell  thy  honest  tale,  such 
as  thou  told  us  that  night, — that  dreadful  night !  thou  first  sought 
shelter  here.     Ah,  I  see  thou  dost  remember  it. 

[Phebe  with  throbbing  recollection,  seizes,  and  jiresses  the  hands  of 
the  Miller  and  his  wife. 

Phebe.  Remember  it!  Oh,  sir,  the  impression  on  the  grateful  heart 
being  ever  newly  writ,  and  newly  read,  indents  so  deep  a  mould,  tiiat 
nought  but  death  can  wipe  the  tablet  clear. 

Mil.  Come,  come,  I'll  help  thee.  Listen,  George.  This  girl,  though 
by  affection  ours,  and  from  that  affection,  having  borne  our  name,  is 
not  by  tie  of  kindred.  Five  years  before  we  met,  I  first  beheld  her — 
'twas  on  one  summer's  eve — and  near  the  hour  of  rest,  a  gathering 
stor ja  approached  our  humble  roof,  threatening  the  country  round  ; 
nor  Dame  nor  I  could  think  of  rest,  but  anxious  sat  and  listened. 

Dame.  [With  painful  recollection.]  Alack!  alack,  the  night ! 

Mil.  I  never  shall  forget  it,  dame :  nor  thee — rooted  in  thy  elbow 
chair,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  hearth  ;  thy  thoughts  did  wander  to 
those  without  a  roof.  Ah  !  if  ever  thy  husband  read  thy  honest  heart 
aright,  'twas  then. 

Dame.  And  if  e'er  thine  beat  in  sympathy,  'twas  then.  I  took  thy 
hand,  and  looked  upon  thy  face.  Thee  took  thy  pipe,  thou  know'st, 
and  sought  to  hide  it  in  the  smoke.  A  sigh  did  blow  it  off;  and  then — 
aye,  then  !  I  saw  the  tear  of  sympathy  drop  !  drop!  from  the  steadfast 
uplift  eye  of  prayer.  [Pause.]  The  storm  beat  louder  still !  we  heard, 
or  thought  we  heard,  the  scream  of  some  poor  child  !  Then  thee  dashed 
thy  pipe  upon  the  ground,  and  listed  the  sound  again!  it  came  again, 
and  nearer  on  our  hearing  !  As  it  approached,  thee  dropp'd  upon  thy 
knee,  and  begged  of  heaven  to  guide  the  sufferer  to  our  door. 

Phehe.  It  did  !  it  did !  for  that  poor  child  was  I !  my  feeble  feet 
essayed  thy  threshold!  my  fainting  voice  asked  mercy  at  thy  door ! 
which  opened  at  the  sound,  for  mercy  dwelt  within,  and  ever  with  a 
willing  hand  had  lift  the  latch  to  misery. 

Geo.  But,  Phebe,  say  what  could  have  driven  thee  forth  on  such  a 
night,  alone,  and  so 

J'lubc.  George,  the  first  deep  trace  my  memory  wears,  pictures  a 
mother's  death.  [George  appears  moved,  as  by  a  sudden  recollection.] 
My  brother  and  myself,  as  orphans,  felt  her  loss  ;  and  both  had  cause, 
for  with  her,  went  our  only  tie  of  earthly  kindred.  Our  father,  (as  I 
have  heard,)  a  soldier,  had  long  since  died  abroad.  Ah  !  we  lingered 
hand  in  hand  about  her  grave,  until  the  mould  we  knelt  on  banked 
up  her  humble  monument.  With  swollen  eyes  and  hands  still  locked 
in  each  other's  hold,  we  sought  in  vain  our  home.  'Twas  sold  !  none 
would  receive  us — until  with  sobbing  hearts  we  sought  a  shelter  in 
the  parish  workhouse. 

Geo.  [Aside.]  The  workhouse  too!  'tis  strange. 

Phebe.  Soon  as  my  strength  allowed  it,  I  was  sent  to  service;  when 
my  mistress — but  I  will  not  dwell  upon  her  cruelty — yet,  still  1  strove 
to  please,  but  all  in  vain;  and  on  the  morning  of  that  fearful  night, 
(having  unknowingly  offended)  I  received  a  punishment  too  severe 


18  the  miller's  maid. 

even  for  the  broken  spirit  of  a  parish  child  to  bear.  Unknown  to  all 
I  fieri — fled  here,  unto  the  threshold  of  humanity,  from  whence  the 
orphan's  orisons  shall  never  cease  to  rise  for  daily  blessings  on  her 
benefactors, 

Mil  They  have  been  heard,  my  child  ;  for  ever  since  I  became  the 
orphan's  friend,  heaven  has  befriended  me. 

Geo.  [Aside.]  Yes,  every  circumstance  accords.  Oh  !  should  it 
be  ! But  your  brother,  Phebe  1 

Phebe.  Though  elder  by  a  year  than  me,  unable  to  protect,  he  left 
me  in  the  parish  house,  and  went  to  sea. 

Mil.  [As  if  from  sudden  thought.]  To  sea!  thou  wert  but  just  re- 
turned from  sea,  when  I  did  meet  thee,  George. 

Geo.  Not  long  escaped  its  fury,  as  you  overtook  me  retrrning  from 
a  fruitless  search  after  an  early  home  and  only,  much  loved  sister, 
sir,  who  went  to  service,  and  who  ran  away.  The  only  tidings  I 
could  learn  of  my  poor  Phebe. 

Mil.  Phebe  !  Did  he  say  Phebe  1    [Aside,  in  breathless  expectation. 

Phebe.  [Aside.]  Ha!  no,  no,  no.     Yet  I  feel  sick  at  heart. 

Dame.  Thou  had'st  a  sister  named  Phebe  1  [To  George. 

Mil.  And  you  a  brother,  named  George  1 

[To  Phebe,  both  addressing  them  hastily  at  the  same  time. 

Phebe.  Yes,  yes  !  but  his  mother  did'nt  die  when  he  was  young — 
they  did  not  send  him  to  the  parish  workhouse  1 

Geo.  They  did  !  they  did  !  and  o'er  this  arm  did  Phebe's  little  form 
hang  lifeless  o'er  her  mother's  grave. 

Phebe.  Then  there  let  it  hang  again.  But,  no — no — [Stopping  in 
breathless  agitation.]  You — you — don't  mean  Phebe  1 — not  Phebe  ? 
Speak  ! — not  Phebe  [both  together.]  Granger  1 

[Both pause  transfixed. 

Phebe.  Oh,  God!  my  brother! 

Geo.  !Tis  she  !  'tis  my  sister ! 

[J.*  tliey  attempt  to  reach  others  each  arms,  Giles  rushes  down  between 
them,  exclaiming  exultingly. 

Giles.  Brother  and  sister!  Then  she  is  mine  indeed.  My  wife! 
my  wife  ! 

[Music. — Catches  her  in  his  arms  as  she  is  falling,  before  she  can 
reach  George. 

[The  Pirst  Act  closes  on  the  group,  Pliebe  remaining  senseless  in  the 
arms  of  the  exulting  Giles — George  hanging  over  her  in  speechless 
agony.  The  Miller  and  his  wife  lost  in  admiration,  with  eyes  and 
hands  vplifi  to  Providence,  on  either  side,  fill  up  the  picture. 

EXD    OF    ACT    I. 


THE    MILLER'S    MAID.  19 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  rural  landscape,  with  a  projecting  pathway — Old 
Granger  sings  withotii,  r.  h. ,  and  then  enters,  dressed  as  an  old 
soldier — he  sings  as  he  looks  about  him,  then  comes  down  pathway 
to  front  of  stage. 

Gran.  Life's  like  a  sea  in  constant  motion. 

Sometimes  nigh,  and  sometimes  low; 
Where  every  one  must  brave  the  ocean, 
Whatsoever  winds  may  blow. 

Ah,  life's  a  sea  of  trouble!  at  least  it  is  to  me.  I'm  always  singing, 
because  I'm  always  sad.  Well,  'tis  better  than  swearing — a  man  must 
vent  his  humor  some  way  or  other. 

There  was  a  jovial  beggar, 

He  had  a  wooden  leg  ; 
Time,  from  his  cradle, 

Had  forced  him  to  beg. 
And  a  begging  we  will  go. 

Aye,  faith  !  and  so  must  I.  Ileigho  !  sad  work,  sad  work  !  to  come 
home  and  find  wife  dead — children  gone!  and  I well,  well,  think- 
ing won't  make  it  better. 

A  soldier  and  a  sailor, 
A  tinker  and  a  tailor. 

Oh,  if  I  sing  a  merry  song,  I  know  I'm  getting  sad  ;  and  after  all,  why 
should  I  be  sad?  I've  only  three  reasons  for  it — I've  lost  my  wife — 
lost  my  children — lost  myself! — no,  no,  only  part  of  myself ;  but  the.), 
I've  lost  the  means  to  support  the  other  part.  Damn  it,  I'm  getting 
sad  again. 

The  soldier  disbanded,  and  forc"d  for  to  beg, 
May  talk  of  his  wounds  and  sufferings  hard; 

Yet  show  but  his  scars  and  his  bald  wooden  leg, 
He's  sure  of  his  country's  love  and  regard. 

[Sits  down  on  a  bank,  l.  n.,  whistling  and  humming  to  himself. 

Enter  Matty,  r.  u.,much  elated. 

Mat.  I've  got  it !  I've  got  it !  I've  got  it !  I've  got  a  tale — a  won- 
derful tale!  Let  file  seo!  George  and  Phcbe's  mother  died — went  to 
workhouse  :  we'll  leave  out  the  workhouse — went  to  service— went  to 
sea — stormy  night— thunder  and  lightning.  Striking  tale !  hired  by 
miller — both  at  mill — fall  in  love.  Sympathetic  tale  !  fJoing  to  be 
married — and  find  out  they  are  brother  and  sister.  Wonderful  talc! 
I'll  print  it;  but  lirst  I  must  write  it.  Oh,  if  1  hadn't  left  oil'  writing 
before  I  came  to  my  alphabet,  I  could  have  done  it  myself,  and  Georgo 
now  would  hardly  write  his  own  tale.     What  must  I  do  1 

Gran.  Hallo,  my  lad  !  where  about  am  I  1 


20  THE   MILLER'S    MAID. 

Mat.  Who's  that  1  Pho' !  don't  tease  me  now.  [Musing.] 

Gran.  Whereabouts  am  1 1 — what  part  of  the  country  'I 

Mat.  Why,  this  part.  Why,  bless  me,  an  old  soldier  come  from  tho 
wars.  Hey,  master!  could'st  tell  me  some  fine  tales  about  battles,  I 
warrant. 

Gran.  Oh,  that  I  could,  indeed 

Mat.  Ah,  but  what's  your  tale  to  mine  1 — no  compairson  in  the  beau- 
ty of  the  thing.    All  true — of  my  own  invention.    Can  you  write? 

Gran.  [Bluffly.]  Yes. 

Mat.  Then  I'll  make  your  fortune. 

Gran.  You  1  [Contemptuously. 

Mai.  Aye,  you  may  sneer.  Bless  you,  genius  is  used  to  deaf  ears 
and  turn  up  noses. 

Gran.  That's  true.    But  how  are  you  to  make  my  fortune  1 

Mat.  I'll  invent  stories,  and  you  shall  write  them. 

Gran.  Pshaw  !  I'll  father  none  of  your  lies. 

Mat.  Lies  !  bless  you,  my  story's  a  true  one. 

Gran.  Of  your  own  inventing. 

A  soldier,  a  sailor, 
A  tinker,  a  tailor. 

Mat.  AVhat  a  brute  !  but  I'll  try  the  effect  of  my  story  on  him,  if  it 
interests  him,  it  can't  fail  on  any  body  else,  and  then  I'll  print  it  as 
my  own.     I  say,  don't  go,  I'm  going  to  astonish  you.     I  shall  make 

the  hair  stand  an  end  on  your  head.    Once  on  a  time Listen  !  there 

was  an  old  man — [neither  of  them  attend  to  each  other,] — no,  no,  no, — 
old  woman,  had  a  son  and  daughter. 

Gran.     '  A  cobbler  there  was,  and  he  lived  in  a  stall, 

Which  served  him  for  parlor,  and  kitchen,  and  hall.' 

Mat.  Aye,  it  was  an  old  woman,  for  the  old  man  was  gone  away 
and  killed  for  a  soldier. 

Gran.         '  No  coin  in  his  pocket,  no  care  in  his  pate, 
No  ambition  had  he,  nor  duns  at  his  gate. 

Derry  down.' 

Mat.  The  old  woman  died  when  thej  were  very  young. 
Gran.  '  But  love,  the  disturber  of  high  and  of  low.' 
Mat.  And  poor  Phebe  and  George  went  to  the  workhouse. 
Gran.  [Stojyping  short  in  his  song.]  Hey  '.  Phebe  and  George  ! 

[Looks  earnestly  at  Matty,  who  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  appears  tc 
he  Jinishing  the  story  out  of  his  own  head — he  feels  vexed  that  he 
has  stepped  to  listen  to  him,  and  proceeds  tcith  his  ditty. 

Gran.  ■  That  shoots  at  she  peasant  as  well  as  the  beau.' 

Mat.  George  went  to  sea,  and  Phebe  to  service ;  after  some  years 

miraculously  meet,  and  Phebe's  eyes 

Gran.  '  Shot  the  poor  cobbler  right  through  the  heart.' 

Mat.  Her  eyes  did  for  George,  and  they  were  to  be  married.   I  say 

take  care  of  your  lame  leg, — it  struck  me  here. 

Gran.  '  I  wish  it  bad  struck  some  more  ignorant  part. 

Derry  down,' 


THE    MILLER'S    MAID.  21 

Mat.  Well,  coming  to  be  married — Parson  asks  their  names,  and  it 
turns  out  that  George  Granger 

Gran.  What! 

Mat.  Was  to  he  married  to  Phebe  Granger. 

Gran.  [In  a  hurried  and  wild  mariner.]  George  Granger  ! — Phebe 
Granger ! 

Mat.  Brother  and  sister.  Wasn't  it  surprising!  Bless  me,  why  he's 
struck  like  a  statty.     Oh,  I  say,  what  you  find  it  interesting  to  you  1 

Gran.  I  do,  indeed — astonishing  ! 

Mat.  Well,  I'm  sure,  it's  a  wonder  you  confess  it,  after  interrupting 
me  in  the  impolite  way  you  did,  by  singing  during  my  composition. 

Gran.  [Much  agitated.]  Your  composition — impossible !  it  can- 
not be. 

Mat.  There,  there — nobody  will  give  me  credit  for  my  tale,  till  they 
begin  to  feel  the  effects  of  it ;  but  after  this,  I  think  it  a'nt  to  be  with- 
stood with  impunity. 

Gran.  After  so  long  a  search,  thus  to  hear  of  them — and  in  such  a 
manner,  as  almost  still  to  disbelieve  my  senses.  Oh,  if  not  true,  I  shall 
indeed  go  mad. 

Mat.  Well,  if  my  first  story  has  such  astonishing  effects,  I  don't 
know  what  will  become  of  people's  senses  if  I  write  often  :  however, 
now  I'm  satisfied  I  have  a  genius.  Wonderful  man  !  I've  a  head — 
I've  a  tale — I'm  an  author!  [Exit,  l.  h. 

Gran.  Yes,  yes,  my  heart  tells  me  it  is  true,  and  I  shall  see  my 
children  once  again.  Young  man,  lead  me,  I  entreat  you  to  them.  A 
father  begs.  [Turning  around.]  How — gone  !  Surely  what  has  passed 
is  not  a  dream  1  No,  no,  no  ;  and  yet  so  strangely  told  !  My  poor  old 
heart  must  surely  wander  1  No  it  is  true.  Heaven  defend  my  poor 
weak  brain — I  know  not  what  to  think.  Oh,  gracious  Power  above  ! 
direct  me  to  the  spot  where  I  shall  find  my  children,  or  my  ciave. 

[Exit,  l.  u. 

SCENE   II.— A  room  at  the  Miller's. 

Enter  Phebe,  l.  h 

Phebe.  What  can  George  mean  1  Though  fostered  beneath  one  roof, 
yet  not  the  children  of  the  same  parents.  Oh,  my  brother,  you  havo 
raised  commotions  here  which  it  may  be  wrong  to  cherish,  and  yet 
not  right  to  check.     Giles  as  a  husband,  I  felt  I  could  not  love — as  a 

brother  I  can  esteem  him  ;  but  George,  as  a  brother,  as  a  hus Let 

me  proceed  no  further;  if  true  fortitude  consists  in  bearing  every 
change  of  fortune  with  equanimity,  and  true  happiness  be  the  art  of 
considering  for  the  best  every  occurrence  of  life,  I  will  instruct  my 
heart  this  lesson,  that  it  may  regain  its  peace. 

Enter  Giles  arid  Dame,  l.  h. 

Dame.  But  why  so  hasty,  Giles  1 
Giles.  I  have  my  reasons  for  it. 
Dame.  What  reasons  1 


22  the  miller's  maid. 

Giles.  What "?  why  t'will  set  my  mind  at  rest,  that's  one  reason  • 
and  with  me  a  strong  one.     Besides 

Dame.  Well,  there  she  be.     Go  and  speak  to  her. 

Giles.  No — do  thee,  Dame;  'twill  be  better. 

Dame.  What  shall  I  say  1 

Giles.  Why,  I  want  to  know  whether  she  means  to  keep  her  word  : 
and  as  she  can't  have  George,  to  marry  me. 

Dame.  You  are  too  hasty.  Well,  well,  I'll  see.  Phebe,  child,  here 
be  Giles  come  to — to  make  you — no,  he  expects  you — that  is,  he 
hopes Speak,  Giles  ;  what  is  it  you  hope  for1? 

Giles.  Why  to  be  happy,  to  be  sure. 

Phebe.  I  hope  you  will,  Giles. 

Giles.  Thankee  ;  and  so  will  you,  I  hope  ;  and  if  you  are,  I  know 
I  shall  be. 

Dame.  So  you  will  both,  if  you  do  but  love  each  other. 

Giles.  I'm  sure  I  do  Phebe,  if  she  loves  me. 

Phebe.  As  a  brother,  Giles,  I  hope  I  always  shall. 

Giles.  No,  no — you  have  one  already.  Love  George  as  a  brother, 
me  as  your  husband. 

Phebe.  Husband  1 — You?  Giles,  I  will  not  dissemble  with  you;  I 
feel  I  never  can 

Giles.  How  ?  dost  mean  to  break  thy  word  ?  Both  the  miller  and 
his  dame  here,  were  witness  to  thy  promise. 

Phebe.  Promise!  Did  1 1  did  I?  [Flying  to  her  mistress.]  No,  no, 
no,  you  did  not  hear  such  promise  :  nor  Giles  will  not,  I  am  sure,  in- 
sist upon  it. 

Giles.  Pardon  me,  Phebe ;  but  your  fulfiling  it  be  the  only  thing 
in  life  to  me  worth  living  for.     Indeed,  I  do  expect  it. 

Phebe.  What  1  if  I — if  I  could  not  love  you,  Giles  1 

Giles.  Oh,  but  thou  wilt  in  time  ;  so  say  at  once — when  wilt  mar- 
ry me. 

Enter  George,  l.  h.,  hastily. 

Geo.  Never ! 

Giles.  Tis  false  !  she  will — she  shall — in  spite  of  thee. 

Geo.  Phebe,  do  you  assent  to  this  1 

Phebe.  Oh,  George, — my  brother!  [Throwing  herself into  his  arms. 

Geo.  Nay,  nay,  Phebe,  he  shall  not  thus  distress  you.  Giles,  you 
have  had  your  answer — she  cannot  love,  and  will  not  marry  you. 

Giles.  Dost  thou  hope  to  hinder  her  1  Not  though  thou  be'st  her 
brother,  shalt  thee  make  her  break  her  promise — she's  mine,  my  wife  ! 

Geo.  How  ] 

Giles.  As  good — that  is,  if  her  word  be  worth  the  having: — as  it 
always  were,  till  you  seduced  her  to  break  it. 

Geo.  [Enraged  and  threatening.]  Seduced  ! 

Giles.  Aye,  I  care  not  for  thy  looks  :  and  if  the  girl  didn't  hang  upon 
thy  arm,  I  warrant  thee  should  feel  a  heavier  weight. 

Geo.  Go  with  thy  mistress,  Phebe.     Good  madam,  take  her  hence. 

Phebe.  [Recovering  herself.]  No,  no,  no.    George — Giles,  wherefore 


the  miller's  maid.  23 

will  ye  quarrel  thus  1  let  mo  intrcat.     Nay,  then — do  either  of  you 
love  me  1  [Firmly, 

(riles.  You  know.  r  „  ,7  ,       ,, 

Geo.  Phcbc.  [Both  together 

Phebe.  Then  heed  me  well.  You  may  he  both  my  friends — my 
brothers — but  the  man  who  first  strikes  the  blow  of  enmity,  shall  ne- 
ver be  my  husband. 

Enter  Miller,  r.  h.,  and  crosses  to  Phebe. 

Mil.  Well  said,  my  girl.  If  the  women  do  sometimes  set  the  men  a 
quarrelling,  they  know  how  to  make  peace,  I  see. 

Dame.  Thy  husband,  child  !     'Tis  Giles  only  can  be  that. 

Mil.  As  far  as  we  know  yet ;  but  George  has  been  telling  mo,  he 
has  strong  reasons  to  believe  he  is  not  her  brother. 

Giles.  Because  he  has  stronger  wishes  to  be  her  husband.  Shame 
upon  him. 

Mil.  Giles,  hear  them  before  thee  judgest :  but  as  I  would  not  listen 
to  them  but  in  presence  of  you  all,  I  now  call  upon  him  to  produce 
his  proofs.  [Crosses  to  George. 

Geo.  I  must  confess  I  have  no  living  proofs  that  I  am  not  what  I 
have  been  always  called — her  brother. 

Phebe.  No  proofs  1  How  George — no  proofs  %  Then  wherefore  sus- 
pect you  were  not  1 

Giles.  Oh,  I  suspect  the  reason,  clear  enough. 

Mil.  I  hope  not.     Proceed,  George. 

Phebe.  Do,  I  beseech  you. 

Geo.  My  suspicions  rest  upon  a  (lying  mother's  words. 

Phebe.  My  mother's  dying  words  1  Oh,  speak  them,  George.  I  was 
too  young  to  note  them  in  my  memory,  tho'  not  to  mark  the  wretched 
change  her  death  brought  on  us  both.     Speak — what  were  they  1 

Geo.  '  Do  not  separate  the  children  at  my  death,'  she  cried, — '  they 
are  not  both  mine,  but ' 

Phebe.  [In  great  agitation.}  But  what  1  but  what  1 

Geo.  That  word,  Phebe,  was  my  mother's  last.  No  light,  has  since 
my  lapse  of  time,  been  thrown  upon  her  meaning  ;  but  yet,  from  this 
I  have  a  hope  that  thou  art  not  my  sister. 

Mil.  And  nought  but  these  words  to  rest  on,  to  deny  thy  kindred  1 
ami  even  thee  so  young,  thee  might  mistake  their  import. 

Dame.  In  truth,  George,  thy  suspicions  are  but  slender  founded. 

Giles,  Aye,  but  his  hopes  be  stroug.  I  tell  thee,  he  would  marry  her. 

Mil.  I  don't  believe  it. 

(riles.  He  don't  deny  it. 

Mil.  What  youal  imply,  he  does — that  he  has  started  these  objec- 
tions for  a  base  purpose.  No,  no,  it  be  too  shameful  e'en  to  think  upon. 
Giles,  thy  jealousy  has  blinded  thee ;  but  remember,  I  am  free  from 
passion,  and  can  see  clearer.  Nay,  I  hope  I  shall  never  be  so  far 
biass'd  by  it,  as  to  impute  the  worst  motives  to  a  fellow  creature's 
conduct,  till  I  have  full  proof  they  are  the  true  ones. 

Dame.  Right,  Gilbert — light !  and  I  have  a  hope,  that  Providence 
will  still  point  out  a  way  to  lead  us  to  the  truth. 


24  tub  miller's  maid. 

Phebe.  It  will,  it  will.  Yes,  yea,  it  shall  be  so  my  good  friends, — 
as  brother  and  sister — (/or  till  we  have  stronger  proofs  against  the  tio 
we  will  be  known  as  such.)  With  your  permission  we  will  seek  our 
native  village,  where  surely  some  one  will  remember  us.  Some  one 
still  exists  who  can  recall  ourselves  and  parents  to  their  recollection, 
and  declare  our  birth.  Oh,  yes,  I  feel  assured  there  does  ;  I  feel  con- 
vinced that  Providence — which  in  our  infant  orphan  state  befriended 
us,  and  when  asunder,  protected  and  restored  us  to  each  other — will 
not  now  forsake,  if  but  by  honest  and  by  patient  means  we  seek  the 
road  to  happiness. 

Geo.  It  shall  be  so — if  we  have,  sir,  your  leave ;  nor  will  I  rest  un- 
til our  errand  be  accomplished. 

Mil.  Children,  we  shall  grieve  to  part  with  ye — but,  in  truth,  I  see 
no  other  way  ;  and  Dame  and  I  will  never  have  it  said  we  set  our  own 
desires  'twixt  thee  and  happiness. 

Giles.  What,  wilt  suffer  them  to  go  together  1 

Mil.  Certainly,  'tis  necessary  to But  what  ails  thee  ! 

Giles.  Nothing  particular;  only  I  were  going  to  say  that don't 

you  see  that  this  be  only  a but  I  won't  say  what,  you'll  only  call  it 

jealousy  again. 

Mil.  [Aside.]  Likely!  What  do'st  mean  1  speak  out. 

Giles.  I  mean,  if  he  once  gets  away,  they  wont  come  back  again. 

Mil.  Then  sin  and  shame  go  with  them.  But  no,  they  dare  not — 
the  shame  is  thine  for  thinking  so. 

Geo.  We  must  set  forth  this  instant — I  cannot  rest  nor  live  in  this 
anxiety. 

Mil.  True,  the  sooner  ended  will  be  the  best  for  all — therefore  to- 
night ye  shall  set  forth. 

Giles.  [Aside.]  To-night  1   Ha !   upon  the  road  I'll  do't— I'll  do't. 

[Rushing  out,  r>.  F. 

Dame.  Come,  Phebe,  thee  and  I  must  have  some  chat  before  thee 
goest,  and  thou  wilt  list,  I  know,  unto  a  friend's  advice. 

Phebe.  As  unto  a  parent's  ;  and  be  the  result  of  our  journey  what 
it  may,  before  you  all  I  pledge  myself,  if  I  return  not  sister,  I  will  not 
wife.  You,  sir,  have  a  father's  right  in  the  disposal  of  my  hand,  it 
shall  never  be  given  but  in  unison  with  your  wishes. 

[Exit  Phebe  and  Dame,  b.  h. 

Mil.  Bless  thee !  bless  thee !  Oh,  George — this  parting  with  thee 
and  that  wench,  I  feel,  deprives  me  of  half  my  existence.  Again  I 
become  childless — pshaw  !  and  a  child  too  myself  I  find.  [  Wiping  his 
eyes.]  But  it  must  be  so — thy  happiness  demands  that  we  should  sep- 
arate for  a  time.  I  will  furnish  thy  journey  for  thee  ;  and  in  busying 
myself  in  preparations  for  thy  welfare,  I  shall  best  provide  my  own. 
Be  that  thy  precept,  lad,  through  life;  and  learn  that  Providence, 
who  do  lead  by  various  ways  to  happiness,  do  make  the  power  of  be- 
stowing it  on  our  fellow  creatures,  the  supremest  point  of  its  enjoy- 
ment to  ourselves.  Exit  with  George,  t>.  F. 


THE  miller's  maid.  26 

SCENE  III. — A  rural  landscape. 

Enter  Matty,  l.  h. 

Mat.  Bless  me  !  I  can't  get  any  body  to  write  this  history  for  me. 
What  a  pity  it  should  be  lost ! — wonderful  the  effect  it  had  upon  that 
old  soldier.  Hey,  what's  that  1  Why,  lauk,  if  there  an't  something 
red  rolling  about  under  that  hedge.  Well,  I  declare,  if  it  an't  him  ! 
If  he  can  be  kept  from  fainting  away  at  all  the  interesting  parts,  he 
shall  write  the  whole  tale  for  me.  Poor  soul !  how  he  lies  moaning 
and  groaning.  There!  now  he's  singing.  Well,  my  tale  must  cer- 
tainly be  a  gift. 

Enter  Old  Granger,  r.  h. 

Gran.  This  lad's  strange  story  runs  so  wildly  in  my  head,  that  I  al- 
most doubt  wether  my  imagination,  which  is  always  brooding  over 
my  children's  fate,  has  not  deceived  me  in  every  dream.  I'll  to  tho 
hamlet,  and  study  every  female  face  for  a  semblance  to  Phebe's  mo- 
ther. Ha  !  the  youth  again  !  then  'twas  no  dream,  'twas  real !  unless, 
indeed,  I  am  again  deceived  by  unsubstantial  vision.  Of  that  I'll  soon 
be  satisfied. 

[Comes  behind  Matty,  and  grasps  him  firmly  by  the  arm — he  turns 
around  alarmed. 

Mat.  What  1  Bless  me  !  what's  that  for  1  Dear  me,  if  it  isn't  the 
madman.     Lord !  how  he  looks. 

Gran.  [Still  grasping  him.]  No,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream. 

Mat.  Dream !  bless  you,  you  arc  wido  awake,  for  you  stare  most 
horribly. 

Gran.  I  grasp  a  substantial  form  ! 

Mat.  Yes,  you  do,  and  a  most  substantial  grasp  you  keep. — Ho 
frightens  me  out  of  my  wits  ! 

Gran.  Harkee  !  not  half  an  hour  since,  on  this  spot,  you  met  mo 
here  to-day  before. 

Mat.  Oh,  you  remember  that  interview  1    Poor  soul ! 

Gran.  Remember  it!  is  has  almost  driven  me  mad. 

Mat.  You'd  say  quite  if  you  were  in  your  senses. 

Gran.  You  told  me  then 

Mat.  What,  you  want  to  hear  my  tale  again  1 

Gran.  No,  but  tell  me — was  it  true  1 

Mat.  Every  word — and  all  of  my  own  invention. 

Gran.  Was  it  then  mere  invention "? 

Mat.  Mere  invention !  could  you  invent  such  a  one"?  [Contemptu- 
ously.] Mere  invention  indeed  !  I'm  an  author. 

Gran.  Answer  me  this  moment.     Was  it  truth  or  fiction  1 

Mat.  [Aside.]  Mustn't  say  it's  true,  or  I  shall  lose  the  credit  of  it. 
Bless  you  !  all  my  own  putting  together.  But  it  might  have  been  the 
truth,  you  know  1 

Gran.  It  might — I  feel  it  might. 

Mat,  And  very  natural — wasn't  it  1 


28  the  miller's  maid. 

Gran.  Very,  very. 

Mat.  Oh,  that's  just  like  me, — I'm  very  natural  myself.  I'm  a  won- 
derful man  ! 

Gran.  So  much  so,  that  I  must  doubt  your  skill  to  put  this  tale  to- 
gether without  some  portion  of  it  drawn  from  truth. 

Mat.  Doubt  me,  do  you  1  Bless  you,  you  don't  know  my  invention. 
I've  just  finished  it  in  my  own  mind;  and  seeing  you  have  helped  me 
to  a  good  thought Will  you  hear  the  finish  1 

Gran.  Willingly. 

Mat.  Stand  further  off  then,  and  compose  yourself don't  be  agi- 
tated. 

Gran.  'Sdeath  and  fury  !  trifie  no  longer  with  my  feelings,  or  I'll 
level  you  and  your  invention  fiat  with  the  ground  you  sprung  from. 

Mat.  Bless  me  !  he  foams  at  the  mouth  already.  Well,  well,  I'll  go 
on — but  first,  where  did  I  leave  off? — oh,  at  the  marriage, — where 
Phebe  and  George  turn  out  to  be  brother  and  sister. 

Gran.  [Almost  breaifiless.]  Arc  they  married  1 

Mat.  [  Very  calmly.]  Why,  I'm  considering  whether  I  shall  marry 
them  or  not,  till 

Graii.  Damnation  !     Are  they  married  or  not  1 

Mat.  Now  really  you'll  spoil  the  whole  story,  if  you  don't  restrain 
your  feelings  a  little.  I  pity  you,  for  I  know  you  must  be  agitated — 
but  contain  yourself 

Gran.  I  can't,  a  moment  longer,  unless  you  instantly  proceed. 

Mat.  Well,  then,  we'll  say  they  are  married  ;  it  will  make  the  thing 
appear  more  horrid,  you  know. 

Gran.  By  all  that's  sacred,  if  I  don't 

Mat.  Bless  me,  he's  raving !  Well,  well,  I'll  make  a  finish,  but  I 
must  prepare  you  for  a  striking  scene. 

Gran.  [Grasping  his  cane.]  Prepare  yourself  for  one. 

Mat.  After  they  are  married  and  living  happy,  the  old  father  shall 
just  then  come  home  from  the  wars 

Gran.  Shall  he  1  [Aside]  Humph  !  many  a  true  word  spoken  in  jest. 

Mat.  Well,  now  mark — now  you'll  be  affected — now  you'll  be  deeply 
agitated.  He  comes  home,  and  discovers  to  them  they  are  brother 
and  sister  !  The  old  man  goes  mad — the  husband  hangs  himself — the 
wife  strangles  her  child,  and  throws  herself  in  the  river.  There  !  there 
now— there's  a  scene  !  there's  distress  !  [Aside.]  This,  I  think,  must 
kill  the  old  man  outright,  hey  1  [Turns  around  to  mark  the  effect  of 
his  tale,  and  finds  that  Granger  has  hurst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of 
laughter. 

Gran.  The  old  man  goes  mad.     Ha !  ha !  lia ! 

Mat.  Poor  soul !  Well,  if  my  tale  has  this  effect  on  the  tough  heart 
of  a  soldier,  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  the  ladies.  I  tremble 
to  think  of  them. 

Gran.  And  the  wife  drowns  herself.     Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mat.  I'm  shocked  !     Well,  if  this  is  the  consequence  of  writing  af- 
fecting histories,  I'd  better  give  over,  before  half  the  world  go  out  of 
their  senses.     Really,  my  tale's  enormous !   it  frightens  folks  to  fits 
I'll  alter  it,  shorten  it — get  another.     Yes,  I'll  go  and 


the  miller's  maid.  27 

Gran.  [Seizing  him  by  the  collar.]  Not  without  me  this  time. — 
Come,  sir,  lead  to  George  aud  Phebe.     No  more  deceptions ! 

[Threatening  with  his  foot. 

Mat.  [Shrinking.]  Oh,  my  tale  ! 

Gran.  Curse  your  tale.  If  you  don't  this  instant  bring  me  to  them 
I'll — I  will.    Along,  then !  along,  I  say,  or — [Exit,  driving  him  off,  e.  h. 

SCENE  IV. — The  same  as  Scene  I.,  Act  I. — Evening — Twilight  and 
Setting  Sun,  which,  giving  a  different  tint  to  every  feature  of  the 
landscape,  varies  materially  its  former  appearance. 

Music- -Enter  Gamekeeper  and  Giles,  2  e.  l.  h. 

Game.  Haste!  haste!  I  tell  you,  or  she  will  escape  us.  [Looks 
through  the  windoiv  of  Miller's  house.]  No,  she  is  now  equipping  for 
her  journey,  and  conies  this  way  alone.     Heyday,  in  a  brown  study. 

Giles.  [Not  heeding  him.]    'Twill  break  her  heart,  poor  thing. 

Game,  [sneeringly]  Break  her  heart.  Well,  then,  break  your  own, 
and  tamely  give  her  up  to  George  ;  because  you  haven't  spirit  enough 
to  take  h«»f  from  him.  Pho !  pho!  conceal  yourself  until  she  has 
passed  th t  bridge.     She  comes!  away,  away  ! 

[LTurriee   >ff  Giles,  l.  n.  u.  e.,  and  Phebe,  equipped  for  her  journey, 
comes  from  the  Miller's  house,  r.  h. 

Phcba.  I  have  hastened  before  George,  who  still  lingers  behind  with 
our  benefactors,  to  enjoy  one  more  glance  at  the  most  favored  scenes  of 
childhood  before  I  quit  them.  Farewell,  my  earliest  friends  !  Fare- 
«rv>A*)  ye  dumb  but  breathing  scenes,  whose  wafted  greetings  I  have 
ft'a  HJ  many  an  evening's  breeze. 

SONG— Phebe. 

Farewell !  loved  happy  scenes,  farewell ! 

Should  I  no  more  your  freedom  share  ; 
Yet  long  my  gratoful  heart  shall  tell, 

What  first  brought  me  a  stranger  here. 

Genius  of  the  forest  shades, 

Lend  thy  power  and  lend  thine  ear ; 
Let  dreams  still  lengthen  thy  long  glades, 

And  bring  thy  peace  aud  silence  here. 

[She  exits  to  symphony  of  song,  aci'oss  the  bridge,  r.  and  off  L.  bidding 
farewell  to  the  house  and  those  within — as  she  passes  it,  Gamekeeper 
comes  forward,  and  observes  her,  2d  e.  l.  h. 

Game.  Aye,  take  your  leave,  damsel,  for  you'll  never  see  them  again 
nor  either  of  your  booby  lovers.  Now  she  is  far  enough,  I  must  has- 
ten and  secure  her  e'er  Giles  prevents  me.  I  must  lure  him  to  the 
spot  though,  that  he  may  bear  the  blame  of  her  departure. 

[Music. — Beckons  Giles,  and  exit  after  Fhebe  over  bridge. 


28  the  miller's  maid. 

Enter  Giles,  2d  e.  l.  n.  calling  after  Gamekeeper. 

Giles.  Mind  !  mind  thee  don't  use  her  ill,  I  say  !  She  shall  not  slip 
us,  though.     No,  no,  George,  Phehe's  not  for  thee — I'll  take  care  of 

that.     Dang  me  first,  if  I  wouldn't no,  no,  I  mustn't  use  her  ill 

[Follows  their  track  over  bridge. 

Enter  Miller,  Dame,  and  George,  r.  n.  house. 

Mil.  George,  lad,  thy  hand.  There!  [Shakes  hand.]  I  won't  say 
good  bye — but — God  bless  thee,  lad  ! 

Geo.  Farewell !  to  both. 

Dame.  No,  no — not  so  :  I  shall  only  say 

Mat.  [Without]  Oh,  my  tale  ! 

Gran.  [Without,  l.  h.  1st  e.]  Where  are  they,  booby  1  Where  is  my 
George  and  Phebe  1 

Enter  Granger,  l.  h.  1st  e.  dragging  in  Matty. 

Geo.  AVhat  do  I  hearl  George  and  Phebe  who  1 

Gran.  Granger — my  children.     Where  are  they  1 

Mil.  Here  is  George  Granger. 

Gran.  [Throwing  away  his  crutch,  which  strikes  Matty.]  My  boy ! 

my  boy  !  and  alter  so  many  years,  do  I  then huzza  !  I'm  not  dead 

you  see,  though  you  long  thought  me  so. 

Mat.  What  a  pity  !  Oh,  he  should  have  died — it  spoils  the  story. 
Ah,  I  see  how  it  is— his  living  so  long  will  shorten  my  tale. 

Gran.  But  what  the  deuce  ails  you  ?  you  don't  seem  glad  to    ■ 
But  where's  my  other  child  !    Zounds  !  I  want  to  cry  for  joy  ;  but  I 
won't  till  I've  found  you  both.  [Hums  a  tune. 

Dame.  [To  Miller.]  Did  he  say  he  was  father  to  them  both  1 

Mil.  Ask  him — I  don't  like. 

Geo.  [Aside.]  Now  comes  the  truth — but  yet  I  dread  to  inquire. 

Gran.  But  how  is  this  1  how  glum  you  all  look  !  Mahap  you  don't 
believe  me  1  however  I'll  soon  prove — or  has  any  thing  happened  1 
Where's  my  child  I  say  1 

Geo.   Here,  father,  to  ask  your  blessing. 

Gran.  There  !  there  !  but  I  don't  mean  you — [Grasping  his  hand.] 
yet  you  are— but,  zounds  and  the  devil !  where's  my  real  child,  Phebe  : 

Geo.  [Elated.]  What,  then,  am  I  not  your  son  1 

Gran.  To  be  sure  you  are  [George  hangs  his  head.] — by  adoption. 
[George  again  appears  elated.]  Hey!  why  what  faces  !  Oh,  aye,  aye, 
I  recollect.  Set  thy  heart  at  rest,  my  lad, — thou  art  my  sister's  son, 
not  mine. 

Geo.  Not.  Let  me  hasten  to  inform  Phebe.  Perhaps  she  may  not 
yet  have  left  the  mill.  [Runs  in  calling.]  Phebe!  Phebe! 

Mil.  This  ends  all  anxiety. 

Mat.  Yes  and  my  tale. 

Gran.  But,  zounds  !  I  say  where  is  she  1  where's  my  girl  1 

[Phebe  heard  to  scream  without,  L.  H. 

Mat.  Talk  of  the  devil— that's  Phebe  ! 

Mil    Hark  !  what  scream  was  that  ?  sure  not 


the  miller's  maid.  29 

Mat.  I'll  run  and  see.  A  scream  !  how  lucky  !  I  hadn't  one  in  the 
whole  story.  A  loud  scream  !  charming  !  Well,  mine  will  certainly 
turn  out  an  interesting  tale,  after  all        [Ru7is  off  over  bridge,  l.  h 

Geo.  Sure  it  was  Phebe's  voice. 

[One  of  the  Miller's  men  appear  at  the  aperture  of  the  Mill,  l.  h. 

Man.  Master !  yonder  I  see  Giles  struggling  with  another  man  and — ■ 

Mil.  But  Phehe  1 

Man.  She  is  with  them  too. 

Mil.  Are  they  in  anger  1 

Man.  At  downright  blows,  master.  Now,  Giles  snaps  off  the  branch 
of  a  tree,  and  with  it  fells  the  other  to  the  ground — now  he  seizes 
Phebe,  who  is  fainting  in  his  arms,  and  bears  her  off  this  way  ! 

[Music. — Giles  appears  upon  Bridge,  l.  h.,  with  PnEBE  in  his  arms, — ■ 
his  clothes  in  disorder  and  torn,  and  brandishing  the  branch  of  a 
tree — presents  a  ferocious  appearance — George  rushes  from  the  cot- 
tage—-he  keeps  him  at  bay  with  his  staff,  till  he  reaches  the  front  of 
the  stage,  occupying  one  side  in  an  attitude  of  defiance— the  charac- 
ters form  a  picture  as  the  music  ceases. 

Geo.  Yield  her  to  me,  ruffian.  She  is  my  wife. 

Gran.  To  me — to  me — she  is  my  child  ! 

Giles.  Stand  off!  she's  mine.   I  saved — fought  for — will  die  for  her. 

Mil.  Giles !  Nay,  I  fear  not  thy  ferocious  looks.  See  yon  aged 
maimed  soldier  !  deprived  of  home — of  offspring— for  many  a  year ; 

and  now  lie's  panting  to  embrace Say  can  you  longer  keep  a  father 

from  his  child  ?  [Pheba  here  appears  recovering. 

Gran.  Phebe  !  my  child  !  ~\ 

Phebe.  Ha !  >  In  a  breath. 

Giles.  Her  father!  ) 

Phebe.  No,  no,  no, — did  he — did  he  say,  father  1 

Giles.  And  George's  too  ? 

Gran.  No,  no,  she  is  my  child— my  only  child  ! 

Phebe.    [Rushing  to  him.].    Ah,  my  dear,  dear [Restrained  by 

Giles.]  Why,  didn'st  hear!  it  is — it  is  my  father!  you  will  not  keep 
me  from  him  1 

Geo.  He  shall  not.     Villain  ! 

Phebe.  He  is  none.  He  saved,  fought  for,  and  delivered  me  from  a 
villian.  Touch  him  not ;  nor  you  [To  Giles,  whose  arm  and  staff  are 
raised  against  George  [Giles!  Giles!  [In  a  playful  manner  attempts 
to  divert  his  anger.  She  by  degrees,  as  she  is  conversing  with  him, 
draws  the  weapon  from  his  hold.]  Nay,  nay,  you  look'd  thus  angry 
when  you  fought  for  me  ;  but  now  we  are  amongst  friends  look  kinder. 
Giles, — come,  'tis  Phebe  asks  this.  You'll  give  it  ine — there!  [Throw- 
ing it  on  the  ground,  and  appealing  to  George.]  Now  touch  him,  if 
you  can  ;  he  has  been  my  shield,  and  I  will  now  be  his.  I  know  his 
heart  is  good — and  that  I'll  trust.  Come,  Giles,  as  you  were  my  de- 
liverer, you  only  shall  deliver  me  to  my  father's  arms.  Nay,  I'll  suf- 
fer no  one  else  but  thee.     Come  wilt  thee  not  1 


30  the  miller's  maid. 

Giles.  And  to  thy  husband  1 

Phebe.  And  why  not  1 — thy  heart  is  capable  even  of  that.  Rouse 
thee  !  we  all  must  struggle  to  be  virtuous ;  but  every  honest  heart  will 
conquer  at  the  last — and  so  will  yours.  Come,  come!  [lie  hesitates 
for  a  moment,  then  presses  her  in  his  arms ;  at  length  turns  to  George 
who  views  him  with  angry  looks. 

Giles.  Thee  need'st  not  envy  me,  'tis  my  first ;  and  must — aye,  and 
shall  be  my  last.  [Kisses  her.]  'Tis  dearly  earned — thee  need'st  not 
envy  me.  There !  there  !  better  I  should  lose  her  than  a  father.  Take 
thy  child  old  man, — there — take  her,  take  her. 

[Puts  her  in  his  arms  and  crosses. 

Phebe.  My  dear,  dear  father !  [Embracing. 

Geo.  [To  Giles  whom  he  has  followed.]  Giles,  will  you  not  give  mo 
your  hand  1 

Giles.  No,  not  now — not  now. 

Phebe.  [Running  to  him  and  taking  his  hand.]  Yes,  now.  What ! 
yield  when  half  the  victory  is  won  1  be  firm,  and  you  will  conquer, 
Giles ;  and  all  who  conquer  in  a  cause  like  this,  cannot  fail  of  hap- 
piness. 

Giles.  [Firmly.]  At  least  I  wish  it  thee;  for  though  I've  a  tough 
heart,  it  may  break  yet.     I  hope  it  may.  [Sighs. 

Phebe.  No,  no,  no. 

Giles.  [Proudly.]  And  if  it  do,  I  can  die  without  envying  thee  or 

him  ;  if  not — why — I  can — I  will,  live  without  bitterness  to Bless 

you,  then— bless  you  both. 

[Joins  their  hands,  and,  rushes  out,  i.  h.  1st  e. 

Gran.  Amen!  a  father's  amen  rest  upon  it. 

Phebe.  George  not  your  son  1 

Mil.  No. — But  that  thou  shalt  hear  anon  :  meantime,  I  adopt  him 
mine.  Take  him,  girl !  and  with  him,  accept  the  mill.  In  giving  it,  I 
become  only  an  instrument  in  rewarding 

THE   VIRTUOUS    DAUGHTER,    IN    THE  MILLER'S    MAID. 


DISPOSITION  OF  THE  CHARACTERS. 

R.  H. 

L.  H. 

MILLER. 

GRANGER.                 PHEBE.                 GEORGE. 

DAME. 

Ljavflord  : 

SPEEDY  BINDER 

ZZZZZ  Syracuse,  N.  Y. 
~^==^-_    Stockton,  Calif. 


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